Reason Knows Not
by Kaitlinbell
Summary: Your husband, we have found, has a very rare health condition. Darco. Mpreg.
1. Chapter 1

And so Kaitlin falls into conformity and posts this with the blessing of Marcolover16, whom started it all and should be given compliments. Lots and lots of compliments. Do please give them to the lovely lady.

All I can really say is, of course, the usual. This fic involves male pregnancy. You have just been warned. Not your cup of tea? I suggest staying away from Earl Grey.

This was written nearly a year or two ago, sometime shortly after Moonlight Desires so there will be plot and canon inconsistencies. There is a second chapter in progress if anyone wishes to see this story continued. Let me know.

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_"The heart has reasons that reason knows not of." -- Blaise Pascal_

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"Marco, this has got to stop. I know you hate doctors...but good God, you're going to have nothing left if you keep throwing up everything you eat."

The Italian man raised his eyes shakily, pushing away from where he had been leaning over the toilet wretching. His limbs felt like they were made out of lead and cold sweat trickled down his neck, but the feeling was quickly leeching back into is body. It was the same every morning. He'd wake up. Usually just fine. Dylan would make breakfast like he usually did, and the second the smell of eggs, or bacon, or pancakes wafted towards him he was on a one way trip sprinting down the hall to the bathroom where he would at once be violently sick. Fifteen minutes later, however, he'd feel perfectly fine. Sometimes a little watered down but nothing more serious to remind him he had just lost half of every meal from the day before.

"Dylan, I don't like doctors. You know that," he ground out, standing up and washing his face at the sink, avoiding the concerned blue eyes staring at him in the mirror.

"I know, but I'm worried. And I don't want to force you, but I'm close to doing so. It'd be quick. Go, find out if it's serious, then we'd come back home." The blond paused, dropping a kiss where Marco's shoulder met his neck. "I could make up for it later," he whispered against his skin.

Marco closed his eyes and wiped all the beads of water off of his face, grumbling inwardly at all of this. "One hour?"

"One hour," Dylan replied, wrapping his arms around the Italian's waist and staring at the two of them in the mirror. Marco didn't look happy, but he had to try. He was going to start getting horribly sick if he couldn't eat.

The dark head bowed down, breaking the reflection's eye contact, sighing loudly and placing a hand on one of the older man's hands that held him. "Alright. For you."

Dylan kissed his temple, inwardly thanking every god he could think of. "Thank you."

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"Marco Michalchuk?"

Dylan looked up towards the nurse and tilted his shoulder a bit, trying to gently wake up the man who had fallen asleep there. "Marco," he whispered to the head of black hair beneath his chin, watching as dark eyes fluttered open. "Hey there. They're calling for you."

Marco sat up slowly, brushing his already immaculate hair back into order with sluggish hands. "Tell me I didn't fall asleep in a doctor's office."

The blond smiled fondly and brushed a piece of imaginary lint off of his husband's shoulder. "I can't lie to you. Sorry."

The pained expression on the Italian's face made him want to almost laugh. "Hey, but that's what we're here for," he chided softly. "To figure out why you're always so sick and exhausted. One hour remember?"

"Yeah, one hour. You owe me," he mumbled, scowling into space before getting up and hurrying after the nurse.

Dylan sighed loudly, tired from having to fight with Marco all the time about his own health. He hated the way it was affecting both of them so much. He wasn't so naive to not know that after three years of marriage any couple would be fighting like cats and dogs but for some reason he never expected _they_ would reach this state.

Scrubbing a tired hand threw his hair Dylan decided he'd have to make a nice dinner for them or something special on the next night they both had off work. It had been ages since they'd done anything romantic like they used to and he missed it. Grabbing a very outdated magazine Dylan relaxed on the uncomfortable waiting room couch and settled in for a wait, planning something to make Marco feel better later.

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"Alright, so you're vomiting for unknown reasons in the mornings yes?"

"Yes, that's right," Marco answered, voice trailing off a bit as he shifted uncomfortably on the paper covered bed, wincing at the crinkling noise. The doctor kept staring at him and trying to figure him out, with all of his questions and ah-ahs and all that other rubbish. He could be home right now. Asleep. Or eating.

"And you have frequent backaches?"

"Mhm."

"What is your diet like?"

Marco felt the need to bare his teeth and growl at him, but kept himself in check, ghosting a forced smile. "I'm a health nut. If it's good for you I eat it."

"Hmmm." Don't kill him, Marco. He's just doing his job.

"And you're low on energy and frequently more hungry than usual?"

"Yes."

"Alright, I'll be right back. Don't move."

The second the door closed Marco stuck his tongue out at the closed door. Good riddance, he silently screamed at the door before stopping to close his eyes irritably. Overt moodiness, he added to his mental list of symptoms, not liking how long it was at all.

After about five minutes of getting his annoyance under control the doctor came back with his husband in tow, who immediately went to stand against the wall a few feet away from him and asked "What's the verdict?" with his eyes. Marco shrugged.

"Well Mr. Michalchuk, as far as I can see you are perfectly healthy. Your symptoms lean towards that of stress. I recommend you slow down or take a break off from the workplace completely. Where is it you work again?"

"I teach at one of the middle schools."

"So you'd be able to get a couple of weeks off quite easily then I'm guessing?"

"Yes, fairly easily. Though I'd really rather not. My kids don't need to deal with a sub for that long..."

"Marco," Dylan whispered from behind him. "Maybe you should take off. You can call and email the substitute five times a day to make sure everything's in order."

Marco turned and scowled at his husband, a low growl forming in his throat. "This is important Dylan!"

Dylan's complacent mood shifted a bit, his eyes narrowing. "And so is this. It's your health we're talking about here. Those kids can live without you for a week or two. I promise. What's important right now is making sure you are okay so I don't have to worry so much."

The Italian glared resolutely at the floor, faintly surprised tears were springing up out of nowhere. He might be an emotional person by nature but this was ridiculous. "Fine," he spat, crossing his arms defensively. "_Exactly_ fourteen days and then I'm going back, sick or not."

Dylan sighed in relief, doctor still in the room forgotten as he placed a gentle hand on the top of Marco's head, brushing his hair back. "Thank you."

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_Twelve days later..._

Marco snuggled into Dylan's side a bit further and tried to quit staring at his cell phone on the coffee table. Days had gone by since the doctor's appointment and Dylan was doing all he could to help him, to keep his mind off of work. And he hated to be a nuisance, but he just kept thinking of all the work he was falling behind on. He knew his husband meant well, and Marco had been far from nice lately...he was just so confused.

His condition had not eased or lessened in the slightest. The sickness in the mornings was still there, rendering him regulated to plain toast. The backaches had certainly gotten worse, and to top it all off he was gaining weight. That part he was most worried about. He was watching what he ate zealously, trying to get rid of it...but it was just adding on, no matter how much less he was eating.

He knew Dylan had noticed. Living together for four years and being completely in love with each other for almost six...well, it's hard to miss things about the other. Like, for instance, he knew that at this very minute Dylan was stressed out terribly, because he could feel his nails through his shirt and they were shorter than usual and ragged. He could also feel the pull of muscles through his body as he assumedly bit off another on his other hand.

"Dylan?" he whispered, raising a hand to rub softly over the blond's stomach.

"Yeah?" the man grunted, eyes riveted on the TV above Marco's head, biting away at his nails as predicted.

"Am I ugly?"

The body he was lying on moved rather suddenly, shfiting until he was forced to look up into Dylan's eyes. "Why in the _world_ would you think that?"

Marco ashamedly moved his gaze away to stare at the floor. "I look like a beached whale. That's why."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dylan smile softly. "No you don't. You look like my perfect sized Marco. You've gained a little weight, but it's not as noticeable as you'd like to think it is. We're just getting old."

"Dylan, I'm 23!"

"Which is old enough for your metabolism to decide it hates you," Dylan cut in gently. "You've been cooped up indoors on doctor's orders. Don't be so hard on yourself. By the time you're back in the hustle and bustle of that sad excuse for a school you'll be just as skinny and scarecrow looking as you always are."

Marco laughed. "Hey! That's not nice!" he gasped out, trying to inch his way down the couch as Dylan's fingers sought out his very ticklish ribs. "No! Don't you dare!" he shrieked at the top of his lungs, simultaneously both batting the blond's hands away and falling off the couch and into the floor in a rather inelegant sprawl.

Dylan leaned over the edge of the sofa with a huge grin shining down at him and an oddly contemplative look in his eyes. "How could you _ever_ think you're ugly..." he whispered.

The Italian man said nothing, just stared up at the man who so obviously loved him.

"Come on," Dylan continued, crawling off the sofa to kneel beside where Marco lay on the floor and slowly ran his fingers through the man's hair. "Let's go to bed early."

Marco nodded slowly, dragging himself up and still staring.

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_four days later_...

"Marco honey, knock knock," called a familiar smooth and practiced voice from his office doorway. Marco looked up from his laptop and hastily tried to rid himself of his glasses, stuffing them in a pocket of his designer blazer.

"Hello Paige. You need something?" he asked.

The blonde laughed and walked over, toeing off her high heels as she went before situating herself on the edge of his desk. "Mr. Michalchuk. I am disappointed. Can I not come to say hello to my best friend without needing something?"

Marco smiled up sunnily. "No, of course not," he said, taking one of her hands and playing with the fingers. "How are things?"

Paige smiled winningly. "Everything's fine. Which you would know if you ever came by and said hi once in awhile."

"Point taken," Marco replied, smiling up at her in a smitten way. "Perhaps after I finish this damn semester Dylan and I will come over for dinner sometime. I've missed you as well."

Paige jumped off the desktop and smoothed her skirt back in place, smiling. "Be sure that you do that Del Rossi, and I'll call El."

Marco rolled his eyes as she walked away to collect her shoes. "Not a Del Rossi anymore!"

"Oh, but you'll always be Marco Del Studly to me. High school friend privileges," she called as the door closed, sending him a wink before she disappeared.

He smiled. Paige was still infuriatingly perfect.

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"Caleb come back this instant! I don't want to have to phone your parents because you wouldn't listen to your teacher, I mean honestly," Marco called, raising his eyes to the ceiling in a silent gesture of 'why me?' It was days such as these he wondered why he'd ever decided a job involving young children was what he wanted to do with his life.

The little boy however was not privy to his thoughts and was still walking away, breaking up the school play practice the class had been involved in. Marco watched at a loss as the boy dangerously climbed over the side of the stage and down to the floor of the auditorium. Only then did Marco jump into action to go after the boy, signing to the other children to stay put or face the consequences.

"Caleb!" he yelled, quickly beginning to stride in the boy's direction. As he neared the edge, ready to jump off despite telling the kids to never do so, his assistant teacher appeared from nowhere, carrying about her clipboard and looking ready to ask a question.

The question however never came, as the woman made contact with his side after running over and it was with an eerily calm mind that Marco felt himself lose his footing, his equilibrium vanishing at the unmeant push.

In a matter of seconds his world turned upside down, arms and legs flying and, with his brain still questionably calm, he felt his body slide over the side of the stage and his body fall the distance to the floor, and make impact with the concrete floor with a sickening little crack.

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"Yes sir, we're speaking with the director this Friday and at that point we'll be able to give you full details on the price tag as well as what to expect. Yes sir. Alright. Talk to you again...yes, Monday morning. Good bye."

Dylan hung up the phone and immediately slumped in his chair, running tired hands through his hair. Peaking through his fingers he looked at the clock and sighed in relief. Thank God, only thirty more minutes.

During college he had of course, gone after his dreams to play professional hockey. Unfortunately, he had made a rather dumb teenager if he did say so himself. He hadn't thought up a back up plan, and let more than a little of his ego get in the way as he went along. So...halfway through his freshman year he had done the biggest idiotic thing of his life... and cheated on Marco.

Okay, so perhaps that was considered normal and common place for a teenager, but he and Marco...they had always been different, always been more invested in their relationship than most people their age. So what followed had been a depression of diabolical proportions. He didn't sleep for days at a time, only crashing once every week due to his dear roommate shoving vast amounts of Nyquil down his throat. He only ate sporadically, meals usually consisting of noodles in a cup. That period of time for him had been quite a dark hole in his otherwise sunny string of life.

In the end, all of the depression and the lack of sleep and decent meals caught up with him, and his coaches took notice to his slip in physique and mind as well. Before he knew what was happening he was off of the team for a failure to participate.

That was when Dylan had finally realized he needed Marco back, and several weeks later after a surprise reunion after Dylan moving back to Toronto, they had shakily started over again. However, his hockey days would never reappear again. So, with the help of his newly regained boyfriend, he began working on his new career, and sooner rather than later he was graduating with a degree in advertising and working a high up desk job for a sports agency.

"Dylan, there's a call for you on line two," the company's secretary said in a scared whisper, poking her head into his office and breaking his thoughts. " It's the hospital."

The blond felt his eyes grow round and he dived dangerously for the phone, picking it up. "Hello? Is everything alright?" he choked out in rapid succession, thinking of Marco's sickness and clenching his unoccupied fist so tightly his fingernails left half moons across his palm.

"Mr. Michalchuk?"

"Yes, yes that's me."

"Your, er, husband, Marco. He's been in a bit of an accident."

Dylan felt a little bit of his hope die at this. "Oh, God. Is he- is he okay?"

"Oh yes, he certainly should be. He fell over the side of a stage apparently. He's got a nasty broken arm and some bruised ribs but otherwise in top form."

The blond sank heavily into his chair as his knees gave out, and he stared forward at his wall, feeling the insane urge to laugh at his obvious distress and rapidly beating heart. "Oh thank God. Alright, I'm on my way. He can be visited I'm assuming?"

"Oh of course."

"Okay, thank you very much."

Without even hitting the end button Dylan threw the phone down in his chair and ran to grab his coat. "Marie! I'm leaving early! If Mr. Mullins asks tell him there was an accident," he yelled over his shoulder as he rushed past her and out of the building, slamming the door shut behind him.

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A man with dark skin and hair looked both ways down the hospital hallway before stealthily slipping into the bathroom, pulling out a small mobile phone from the pocket of his white lab coat. Systematically checking each stall for an occupant the man finally came to stand before one of the mirrors before deigning the room safe and dialing.

"Hello. I need to speak with Dr. Mikhailov. It is urgent."

The sounds of his call transferring echoed over the line and finally a thickly accented voice appeared. "Yes?"

"Sir...I am employee 6732. I am stationed in Toronto, Canada. And as of 6:47 this evening we have encountered a situation."

"Are you sure?" the voice answered in astonishment.

"Positive sir. The routine blood check was highly positive."

"Well," the doctor said in wonder. "I'll be notifying transportation. You know what to do?"

"Yes sir. Good bye sir."

Employee number 6732, better known as Joel to the outside world, pressed the end button before dialing again.

Tonight was going to be busy.

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Marco opened his eyes slowly, feeling pain from the bright lights flare up. A smooth warm hand held his own on top of course sheets and his sides ached tremendously. Fighting against the pain still pulsing behind his eyes he wrenched his eyes open, blinking rapidly and turning to see who was with him.

Dylan sat by his bed, half-asleep, face propped up on a hand and Marco smiled at the sight, feeling quite stoned. He leaned over best he could to kiss the man's closed eyes, smiling goofily when the man jumped awake. Blue eyes shot open and then calmed in awareness. Dylan smiled wanly, shifting to get comfortable and using his now free hand to trail through the Italian's hair. "Gave me quite a shock," he murmured, becoming amused when Marco only looked up at him and smiled, the pain killers running through his bloodstream making him dozy and half-awake.

"But you're okay. That's what important," he said, watching his husband nod and close his eyes, his normally loquacious self seemingly dead. Running a final lingering hand through his hair Dylan moved to sit in the chair nearby, watching his husband sleep.

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_Two hours later..._

"Excuse me, sir."

Dylan blinked rapidly, forcing his foggy mind to wake up. In front of him stood a rather attractive Indian man, wearing traveling clothes with a doctor's smock placed precariously over them. If it weren't for his brain still waking up, he'd wonder why this did not trigger alarm bells.

"Hello," he yawned out, attempting to sit up correctly in the chair he had fallen asleep in, casting a quick glance over at the bed where Marco was sleeping.

Except Marco wasn't there.

"Where is my husband!" he gasped, standing up quickly and turning panicked eyes to the other man.

"Sir, you must listen to me. I will tell you exactly where your husband is if you come with me now. This is urgent and we have little time!" the man insisted, voice urgent and the heavy Hindi accent causing him to speak slower than necessary despite the hurry.

Dylan turned murderous eyes on the shorter man and bared his teeth. "I don't understand. What have you done with, Marco!"

"He is safe, my friend. Perfectly safe. But his condition is beyond what this hospital could hope to help him with. He is being moved to a safer medical facility."

The blond stared at him hard, clenching and unclenching his hands. What if he had been kidnapped? He had looked fine. How could his condition have truly been so problematic? What if they were going to hurt him? But this man said he was safe. What if he was lying?

"I want to see him. Now."

"I assure you. If you follow me you may see your husband in minutes time. But we must hurry!"

Throwing caution to the wind Dylan nodded and followed the dark man out as he twisted through corriders and doors until he was finally led to a parking lot where a black Lexus stood running and waiting.

"What is this?" he growled out. But the man had suddenly opened the back car door and lying in the backseat was a still softly sleeping Marco, just as completely unharmed and safe as he had been in the hospital.

"Please," the man asked in a kind voice, closing the back door and opening the passenger side. "Climb in. I shall tell you everything on the way to the facility."

And against his better judgment, Dylan did as he was asked, deciding if Marco was to be kidnapped he was sure as hell going to be there as he slipped into the car and fastened his seat belt, casting a worried, longing glance to his husband in the backseat. The other man appeared in the driver's side seconds later and within what felt like moments Dylan found them traveling down a deceptively serene highway out of town.

"What is all this about?" Dylan finally asked again when he got over the shock, alternating between throwing glances back at Marco and glaring at this unknown man.

"Your husband, we have found, has a very rare health condition. For the next seven or eight months he will need to be under constant medical supervision as well as monitored to make sure his condition does not become fatal."

"Fatal?" he choked out, swallowing painfully. Dylan nearly hurt his neck in his hurry to look back at Marco behind them, looking younger in his sleep and suddenly heartbreaking.

"As long as he is under our care he will be perfectly fine, Mr. Michalchuk. His condition is actually quite a wonderful thing."

"I don't follow. If it's fatal and so precarious how in the world could it be wonderful?"

"Sir...your husband...is pregnant."

Dylan stared at the man with wide eyes for several minutes, only blinking and trying to control his breathing. His mouth falling open he turned fully in his seat to look back at Marco...staring at him contemplatingly before turning back around.

"What kind of sick joke is this?" he spat.

"This is not a joke, Mr. Michalchuk. Your husband has been removed from the public hospital to be moved to a government funded facility where he will go through testing, physical training, and eventually, child birth. It is...such a rare and unique occurence it is kept away from the public eye completely. You must understand the reaction this type of miracle would cause?"

Dylan only stared forward at the headlights rushing by and felt his heart beat faster, fluttering painfully against his ribcage as the word echoed in his head.

Pregnant?

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When Marco finally awoke he was more than a little disoriented. The warmth surounding him made it obvious he was no longer splayed painfully on the concrete floor of the school. Even stranger, his ears seemed to be popping under unseen pressure.

Taking his chances, Marco allowed his eyes to flutter open the smallest bit, clenching them tightly closed not a second later as harsh lights attacked his eyes. He groaned instead of brave reality again and burrowed further into the warmth beneath him. So when said warmth suddenly began speaking to him Marco was distantly shocked.

"Marco baby, wake up."

For all of a second Marco allowed himself to panic before recognizing the gentle voice in his ear as Dylan. Now with a source of motiviation Marco opened his eyes again, damning the still burning lights. The crystal blue eyes of his husband floated into view and Marco quickly assessed as much of the situation as his tired and aching head would allow. He was lying curled up in Dylan's lap in what appeared to be an extremely uncomfortable airplane chair. A quick cursory glance of his surroundings verified the fact he and Dylan were indeed on a very nice, very small plane. Nothing made sense.

"D-Dylan? What's going on?" he asked fearfully, noticing the eleven other seats in the plane were mysteriously empty. Dylan however hugged him closer instead of answer, seeming content to simply run his hands down the Italian man's back.

"We're being taken to a special hospital because of your fall. They'll explain to you when we get there."

Despite the part of his mind that immediately jumped to the work he would miss was nearly forgotten and Marco silently praised heavy pain medication for the doping effect on his brain. Nothing really seemed to matter beyond curling up for more sleep. Nuzzling into his husband's neck, being extra careful not to jar his ribs, Marco sighed. "Am I going to be alright?" he finally asked in a small, childish voice, secretly wanting Dylan to tell him everything would sort itself out.

Dylan complied. "Yeah baby. We're going to be just fine."

Marco nodded in response before slipping back into darkness with a whispered 'I love you' on his lips, not even bothering to question the use of 'we' instead of you.

As Marco's lashes fluttered, signaling his slip into sleep, Dylan sighed loudly, lifting a hand to rub at his tired eyes. Marco's weight was pleasant and reassuring in his lap, and the breathing against his neck was slow, but despite this Dylan felt uneasy and rightfully so.

The man's words were still ringing in his ears, like an ever repeating broken record. Dylan didn't want to believe them. He wanted to believe this entire thing was an elaborate set up of his sister's, but even for her, the cruelty of this joke was just too much. To tease himself, and especially Marco, whom wanted children more than anything else, with even the glimmer of hope that this was possible was...heartless.

Marco murmured in his sleep, wiggling into his body that bit more and Dylan rubbed the Italian's back absentmindedly, his other hand coming to rest against the near flat planes of the man's stomach.

But the signs were all there. His eating problems, the sickness, the fatigue, the fluctuating moods. Granted he knew little to nothing about pregnancy to begin with. It was never anything he'd ever had to think about, but even he could notice the strange coincidences.

And even then...right at this moment he had no clue where they were...and he was absolutely terrified; honestly, hysterically terrified for the first time in his life. Joel, as the man had recently asked to be called, had simply said the location must remain unsaid and that he understood his distrust. Even so...he could very well be thousands of miles from home by this point.

But the curiousity was keeping him from panicking overly. He just...had to know.

He would kill them all if they gave Marco this crazy, unreasonable hope in vain.

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When Marco awoke again it was to arguing. In the helpless moments between sleep and wakefulness he struggled to figure out what was going, straining his ears and fighting to keep his eyes open despite the blinding light around him still.

He was still within the plane, he realized, and still situated in Dylan's lap, a horrible ache now in his lower back from the position, and his arm, still weighed down by the cast, in his lap itched and pulsed painfully in time with his heartbeat.

Above him Dylan was glaring openly at a man he was certain he'd never seen before, but whom also looked vaguely familiar to him for some reason, and, at that moment at least, he looked upset.

"Sir, I swear to you we mean you no harm. This is common procedure and once we touch down, which we'll be doing in half an hour, the head doctor will explain everything."

Marco exhaustedly raised his head, feeling pain pour off of him waves as his head pulsed dangerously and he nearly blacked out, seeing black spots cloud his vision. Reeling dangerously and feeling strong arms wrap around his middle to keep him from careening into the floor, Marco looked up at the dark man through his hair.

"What have you done to me?" he gasped out, nausea rising worryingly. He could feel the worry coming off of Dylan as the man held him.

The dark haired man however said nothing, only looked at Marco with a pitying expression before turning his eyes back to Dylan. "We have to keep him off of medication for the time being. His arm and ribs are no doubt causing him immense pain. Comfort him as best you can." With that, the man turned on his heel and disappeared back into the pilot's cabin leaving the two seated men alone once again.

The silence was only broken as Marco whimpered in pain, nearly doubling over and toppling into the floor. "D-Dylan, what's going on?" he whined, not at all sleepy or doped down by medication as he had been earlier and very quickly beginning to panic at the strange surroundings and people.

Dylan looked on helplessly, needlessly brushing the man's hair out of his eyes and holding him to keep him from falling. "I don't know, babe," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss Marco's cheek as if this would help alleviate some of the pain in his head; as if sweet words and touches could somehow drive them away. "Everything happened so quickly. But we'll be...there...soon. We'll get you some meds and get home as quickly as we can. I promise," Dylan replied quietly so as not to hurt Marco's head as he tried to appear unworried and sure of the situation.

Stomach still flipping warningly Marco could only nod, not trusting himself to open his mouth at the moment as the usual sickness upon waking swam up within him coupled with the altitude and motion sickness customary on plane flights. He felt ridiculously small and vulnerable at that moment. Where he only yesterday could function just fine he now found himself unable to do anything but stay put and let Dylan keep him from sliding to the floor.

Instead of carry on a conversation, instead of stressing himself out more by asking where they were, why they were there, he moved to lie back against Dylan, the pain in his lower back flaring back to life thanks to the position once again. Marco ignored it however in favor of the comfort and the warmth, wondering if it was just his imagination that the heat from Dylan's neck against his forehead caused the pain in his head to abate just the smallest bit.

With Marco relatively calm once again the last thirty minutes within the plane were tense ones for Dylan. He forced himself to keep his mind off of what was to come by focusing on Marco and Marco alone, putting more energy than necessary into smoothing out his hair, and whispering nonsense in his ear.

By the time he felt the turbulence signaling a landing Dylan held Marco more tightly than before, closing his eyes as he heard Marco make uncomfortable, scared noises in his ears, wondering just how badly the Italian must feel. He couldn't imagine going through any of his broken limbs without having something, anything, to subdue the pain.

He'd kill them all, he decided, gritting his teeth and kissing the top of Marco's forehead, feeling cold sweat beneath his lips. At that moment all movement stopped and only then did Dylan realize he was practically crushing Marco's tiny body into his own and loosened his grip, apolgozing quietly. Marco did not seem to have noticed however as he lifted away from the other man's chest, swaying drunkenly and looking decidedly green.

Short minutes ticked by, feeling like the shortest of seconds to Dylan as he dreaded what was to come. From the pilot's cabin came Joel, already becoming annoyingly familiar to him. The damn man who started this all, Dylan though. The one who dragged them to another country judging by how long they'd been here.

"Where in the hell are we?" he growled, feeling Marco shy away from his voice without getting out of the embrace. He was apparently far immersed in his own clouded world as Marco would normally be extricating himself from such intimacy in front of others instead of turning into it with more purpose. What pain could cause Marco to choose comfort over embarrassment? It served to seal Dylan's anger. "He needs help right fucking now. So help me..."

Joel looked on calmly, large near black eyes still holding the same deceiving calm and concern. "I understand," he reassured quietly, moving forward to kneel on the carpet before the two men, taking a fever strip from his pocket and placing it over Marco's forehead. Dylan distantly realized it had become entirely too quiet now that they were on ground.

After a moment of the men waiting, Joel pulled away, pocketing the thermometer once again and looking ashen, the first sign of true worry clouding over his otherwise handsome face. "Come, we must hurry and alert the doctors."

Dylan did not even bother questioning this statement, the first time the other man had made sense. Gathering Marco up in his arms and standing, he could feel the smaller man accomodating almost instantly, short arms wrapping around his neck to help lighten the load though he weighed very little.

Joel led the way to the exit and the three rushed through a glass terminal. A glance outside showed a near endless sea of snow, giving no indication to where they were, but at the end of the hallway there was a door.

Alarm bells went off in Dylan's exhausted head as Joel was required to enter a password before the door opened. Inside was a sea of white much like the snow outside. For all of a second Dylan panicked, realizing this was definitely not an airport of any sort, but he was thankfully distracted by Marco whining into his ear, steeling his resolve once again.

Unfamiliar and twisting hallways were followed and Dylan tried to keep up with where they were going. Right, right, left, right, left, elevator to the third floor, but he quickly gave up, instead focusing on the tags on the doors the three men rushed by, searching for any clue, and all signs did indeed point towards a hospital.

That in mind, Dylan quickened his pace, finally realizing that if this was a hoax after all at least half of it were true and Marco could indeed get help here.

Finally, after what felt like years worth of traveling through unfamiliar territory Joel opened a door on the right side of a hallway that looked just like all of the others, standing aside and waiting for Dylan to enter with Marco. After a moment's hesitation the blond took the invitation, sidling by and being mindful to keep from hitting the smaller man's head into the doorframe.

Inside was an equally unmiraculous room; simple white, too bright, a small doctor's bed in the middle, which Dylan immediately lay his husband on, watching as Marco turned onto his side the moment he made contact with the paper covered seat, curling over as if protecting his broken arm subconciously. Indulging himself a moment Dylan leaned over to whisper small comforting words into the man's ear before he stood back upright and turned to Joel.

The man was gone and Dylan instantly felt positively livid. Throwing a last glance at Marco he stormed out of the door, near running into another man. Disoriented, he was too angry and shocked to even mutter an apology, but as he looked up he realized it was Joel that he'd run into.

Joel stood just outside the door, talking to an elderly man with a severe face. Dylan looked unsurely at the other man, catching onto lively grey eyes and the full peppered black hair and beard and the white smock, reminding him of the one Joel had worn while coaxing Dylan to leave the hospital in Toronto.

As if feeling the confusion and the anger coming from Dylan, the stern faced man instantly seemed to morph before him, expression turning warm and inviting, grey eyes alight with concern as he moved forward to shake the blond's hand heartily.

"Mr. Michalchuk!" he greeted with a thick Russian accent, the only person who'd ever come close to pronouncing his last name correctly. It was this rather odd reason that Dylan felt himself calm down considerably.

The man seemed to sense this as well and so forged on. "I am terribly sorry for all of the inconvenience. Joel has told me you are both very upset, and quite understandably so. Let's step inside and I will look over your husband as I try to explain it all to you. Come, come."

A friendly, old hand clapped on his muscular shoulder and despite being easily twice as big as the other man, Dylan let himself be ushered back into the room, Joel disappearing down the hall. Once inside the door was closed and Dylan was pushed into one of the few chairs lining the wall, watching as the elderly man went about poking at his husband, taking his temperature as Joel had done earlier and his heartbeat, and a million other checks of his vitals.

After a moment the man tossed a jovial glance over his shoulder. "Goodness, the move must have been utterly terrible for him. I've never had a patient injured during transport." As he spoke he went to his workstation, measuring out and preparing a syringe before shuffling back over and injecting Marco with the unknown substance. Dylan felt his heart stutter in terror, tensing to stand before the man held up a veined hand for him to stop. "It is okay my friend. Nothing more than pain killers that will not be detrimental."

Dylan glared, clenching the arms of his chair, but the man seemed done with his prodding at Marco and instead grabbed his rolling stool, moving it before him and taking a seat. He was still smiling and pleasant looking, and Dylan wondered once again if this was a hoax.

"My name is Dr. Bernard Mikhailov," he said, introducing himself. "I am one of the only doctor's in the world trained in the field of male pregnancies which I'm sure Joel has informed you is the reason for your stay with us. I'm afraid there are very few of us, and all of them in this building. The different governments don't seem to think the world is ready. I, quite frankly, think that is grade-A American bullshit, and you'd better believe they started the secrecy."

Blond eyebrows rose in amusement and just a little bit of fear as the Russian man seemed to get angry while still maintaining his friendly attitude. Dylan found himself straining to hear every word the man said, seeing if he could catch even a hint at a hoax.

"I know at the moment you are wondering where the hidden cameras are, am I right?" he asked, cigarette stained teeth coming into view as he smiled genuinely, lifting a hand to wave around the room. "I'm afraid there are none...and that no one has lied to you yet, nor does anyone plan to. You and your husband...you have something that quite literally defies science. There are people in laboratories all over the globe still trying to explain this phenomenon. And all are still coming up with more questions than answers. There are only so many things that I can tell you...but I will try if it means easing your mind and making this experience easier."

Dylan swallowed heavily as the doctor finished his piece, feeling windswept and suddenly very small in the face of something this big. He thought of the millions of questions zooming about his head since he got into that damned car. He finally settled on a quiet. "Where are we?"

The doctor nodded his head, apparently pleased that this was a question he could answer easily. "Several miles off of Moscow. The exact location is not plotted."

The blood seemed to drain from Dylan's face as he swayed much the same way Marco had earlier. "Wh-...you dragged us halfway across the world?" he asked, voice weak and reproachful now that his fears were confirmed.

"I am sorry, my friend. This is the only facility in the entire world. We've had others flown in from Poland, Chile, Syria, Hong Kong...though you are the first from North America. We have pushed to get a station in every continent to make things easier in the future but the governments just won't hear it. With so few cases, they think it superfluous."

"How many of us are there?" Dylan questioned, still distantly not buying this at all, but utterly powerless to object in the face of the doctor's seriousness.

Dr. Mikhailov smiled brightly, looking positively ecstatic at this question. "Why you, Mr. Michalchuk, and your husband, make couple number seven in the last century."

Dylan was reeling, lifting a hand to press against his head, trying to keep up. "Oh God...what...what happens now? You've got us here, an ocean away from home...what now?"

The kind man seemed to stare at him consideringly for several moments before moving forward to pat his hand as if he were a grandfather of sorts, comforting a grandson. "Now...now Mr. Michalchuk we help prepare your husband for what is to come. There are rooms prepared for you. Do not let the ugliness of the facility daunt you. I understand how unwelcoming it can seem, but the rooms are made with you and Marco in mind so as to make the next five months comfortable."

"Five?" he questioned, randomly remembering pregnancies normally lasting nine months.

"Yes, just the five. We will have to perform a sonar and a few other tests tomorrow morning to be sure but I'm assuming he's gone through a month, perhaps even two already. These particular pregnancies do not last quite as long as a woman's. The male body has to make several accomodations to perform this miracle...too long under that kind of strain...it's dangerous."

It felt as if a bucket of ice had dropped unceremoniously into his stomach, and Dylan cast a flurried glance over to Marco across the room, sleeping in the most fragile and heartbreaking way despite the life changing conversation going on just feet away. Underneath the pain and the worry, Dylan distantly wondered if he didn't hurt anymore. Turning back to the doctor, Dylan stared at him beseechingly.

"Will he die?" Dylan asked, voice almost disappearing.

The man shook his head, moving to stand. "Not if there is anything I can do to prevent it, Mr. Michalchuk."

The answer was not what Dylan wanted to hear. The answer spelled the possibility out in stark black and white and the prospect shook him to the core. Standing shakily as well, Dylan found himself looking down on the doctor from his height, but still somehow felt like a scared child before him.

"Tonight however, we need to focus on Marco healing," Dr. Mikhailov said quietly, voice melting into a reassuring tone. "That broken arm of his could have caused irreversible damage. Your husband however has proved to be resilient. The medication given by the hospitals can sometimes cause strange effects towards the fetus. Here we have developed special pain killers and the like. I'm sorry for the pain he had on the journey here. Rest assured nothing of the sort will be happening again."

Dylan could only nod, already moving over to Marco across the room and looking down at him sadly. He almost did not hear the voice of the doctor, so lost in his head.

"Would you like me to call in a wheelchair? I'd like to get you both accomodated for the night so that you both may rest."

He shook his head, bending down and gathering Marco into his arms once again. Dr. Mikailov regarded them both for several seconds and Dylan idly wondered what he was thinking as he felt Marco move in his sleep to hold his neck. If his nerves were not so shot, and his exhaustion so palpable, Dylan would have found the movement amusing. They worked as a team even asleep.

The doctor after his seeming years of contemplation finally smiled, grin sheepish as if he were embarrassed for being caught, before he beckoned Dylan on with a wave of the hand, leading them down the hallways, now at a much slower pace than earlier. Dylan was too tired to keep up with the directions, too tired to look around. Too tired to even care if this was all an elaborate set up any longer.

Mikhailov stopped at a door and opened it with a key he pulled from the pocket of his smock, ushering Dylan inside. The room beyond was as the doctor had said, not like the cold hallways, but warm and inviting, resembling a small apartment.

"Someone will pick you up late tomorrow afternoon, leaving you plenty of time to get the recommended amount of sleep and a shower. Tomorrow, my dear boy, the work begins," Mikhailov whispered, jarring Dylan out of his perusal.

Turning, Dylan only nodded to the doctor. He wanted to call out a million questions once the door was closed. He wanted to know what would happen tomorrow. How this all would work. How it had happened. But instead he found himself immersed in the calm silence of their new rooms.

A small movement from Marco in his arms brought him back to reality and Dylan crossed the room quickly, laying the Italian down onto the bed and went about taking off the man's shoes and easing him out of his jeans before he undressed himself.

Crawling onto the otherside of the bed, Dylan maneuvered the blankets over the two of them, straining over Marco's near comatose body to switch off the lights, plunging them into an enveloping, buzzing silence.

Marco's breathing was the only thing that broke the silence, soft and deep beside him and Dylan inched closer, pulling the tiny body into his own until he was spooned into the other, mindful to keep the weight off of the casted arm.

Almost without realizing it, one of his large hands came to rest on Marco's stomach, nearly covering it completely as he listened to the exhales and the heart beats that reassured him Marco was alive and warm beside him.

Dropping a small kiss to the exposed neck in front of him, Dylan allowed his mind to finally shut down, exhausted from everything, until he fell into a deep uninterrupted sleep.

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Surprised? Maybe a little uncomfortable? Anyone giddy? I'll leave the emotions up to your own psyches to decide but I would love to have feedback on those strange fluttering sensations within your stomach, good or bad. So please do review!


	2. Chapter 2

As promised, chapter two for those still interested. The feedback came far quicker and in far greater numbers than I anticipated! Thank you all for your reviews.

Warning for extremely lengthy dialogue despite the fact that it's about 1200 words shorter than the prior chapter.

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Ever since he was very small, Marco had always possessed the uncanny ability to know where he was before he ever opened his eyes. Where most people climbed from sleep into the waking world with only a foggy handle on their bearings and whereabouts, Marco could pinpoint his location in the world without a moment's hesitation.

This gift had come in handy as a kid after emergency trips to Italy and sleepovers, but most notable of all was when he was barely a baby being carried from one room to another while asleep. Despite being so young, he could effortlessly remember the foggy feelings of place.

However, when Marco drifted in a half asleep fog the next morning with a still near splitting headache and even more terribly perfect pain in his arm and back, it was with a panicked start that he realized for the first time in all his 23 years of life...Marco had not a clue where he was.

He lay there in the unfamiliar bed, open eyes staring wide into the great nothingness that he could only guess was a ceiling. Dylan lay comfortingly at his back, one leg thrown possessively and uncomfortably over his own in sleep. The strange numbness in his own legs threatened a tidal wave of pins and needles when the blond decided to wake up.

Minutes ticked by and Marco could not, for the life of him, figure it out and he couldn't help but feel as if this was a bad omen.

Marco took a large breath, feeling the need to go to the bathroom rush through him coupled with an even more overwhelming need to be sick as with every morning. He whined through his small pain muddled cloud and decided he could take it no longer, no matter how much he didn't want to wake his husband.

He lifted his unhurt arm and pried Dylan's arm off of his waist and did the same with the man's leg, somehow managing to turn the man onto his back. Instantly the feared sensation of pins and needles assaulted his legs and Marco grit his teeth near painfully as he groped about beside him, luck on his side as his hand came in contact with a lamp and switched it on.

The panic increased as he realized he'd never seen this room before. Though, he visibly forced himself to calm down as he repeated to himself that it looked like a hotel, that it was innocuous and not completely worrying.

This in mind he climbed gingerly out of the bed, hissing and whining the whole time at the sparks of pain ricocheting through his body with every movement. Hurrying though he managed to stumble into the bathroom and it was the sound of the door closing that woke Dylan in the next room.

Within only the last few months, Dylan had come to believe that the worst possible sound to wake up to was that of someone retching. He'd awoke to this same noise so many mornings recently he wondered why he was still not used to it. However, this morning was just like every other in this way, as his eyes pinged open, finding the small room bathed in the glow of one lamp and wonderfully warm, he could hear his husband being sick through the thin walls.

Instantly windswept with the memories of the previous evening and the new meaning behind Marco's sickness upon waking, Dylan felt instantaneously wide awake. Peeling away his blankets in a hurry, he rushed after the noises, letting himself into the restroom.

Inside was a familiar scene, Marco looking truly ghastly as he knelt on the floor ashen faced and shaky. It was made worse this morning as Marco very obviously looked lost and uncomfortable, and every few seconds a pained wince would cross his face.

Dylan sunk down to sit on the edge of the bathtub, running soothing hands through the Italian's hair, watching as the man's eyes shut involuntarily at the comfort. When brown eyes opened once again seconds later, they looked much more calm but no less curious.

"Where are we, Dylan?"

The words were quiet and if Marco's face had been turned away Dylan was sure he would not have heard him at all. Several responses swam through his head. He considered telling him this was still the hospital. Even more hair-brained, he mulled over telling the man that they had moved over night without his consent.

However, Dylan knew that they had precious little time before some sort of facility representative, or even Dr. Mikhailov himself, came to collect them, meaning he had this little time to tell his husband not only the utterly unbelievable truth that he was...God it had all made so much more sense the night before, but also that they were miles from home.

Dylan felt himself give a strained, wonky smile, gathering Marco up in his arms and helping him off the floor. It struck him suddenly how very small the other man was, a good head shorter than him and ridiculously bony. Compared to his own still rather impressive stature and physique at least, Marco was nothing more than a waif.

The words from the previous evening echoed in his mind. _Will he die?_

One arm tightly wrapped around Marco's shoulders, Dylan guided them both back into the bedroom, letting Marco lie down again before he told him anything. It was times like these that he wondered the true limits of his own cowardice because he found himself inexplicably tight-lipped and unwilling to divulge the events Marco had slept through the night before.

Lying back down as well, Dylan sidled across the bed until he was nearly nose to nose with a still ashen faced Marco. Buying time, he lifted a hand to run through the man's messy hair, teasing snags and altogether putting more energy into this small task than was wholly necessary. Unluckily or luckily for him, Marco had seen this behavior several times over and knew what this mood meant.

"Don't stonewall me, Dylan, where are we?" Marco whispered, voice sounding rough and raw from the retching, his red eyes imploring and beseeching as he regarded the blue pair avoiding his own.

After a moment of trying to keep up with his racing mind Dylan only shook his head, swallowing with an audible click. "The phrase 'the last place you expected' happens to ring true." At the annoyed expression on his husband's face, he sighed.

"We're in Russia," he murmured at last, voice seeming to bleed right into the sheets, imbedding there so that Marco could feel them against his skin, an invisible mental invasion hidden cunningly within warm words.

For all of a moment Marco looked close to laughter. As if choking on a cough he seemed to hesitate on the very edge of a chuckle before his eyes caught the absolute seriousness of Dylan's face, and his entire body visibly tightened, his mouth snapping shut, laugh completely forgotten.

"Why?"

The word was so deceptively small for a question that held a thousand and more answers. But which response would be the right one? Which one would put Marco the most at ease...which was the higher road? Should he tell him the lie about his arm once again? Should he tell him the larger truth?

"Dylan?"

What if it was a hoax after all? Sure last night the doctor's words had sounded so reassuring, as if taking the pressure of Marco's ongoing illness off of his own shoulders. Sure it was wonderful to consider children. It was just made so easy this way. But...it was just too unbelievable.

"Answer me."

Even worse...what if it was true? What if Marco really was pregnant, some small tiny life living right there inside of him depending on Marco to stay okay...for Dylan to keep Marco okay. Were they ready for this? Was...was Marco ready for this?

_Will he die?_

Amid his thoughts, a flare of pain shot through his head as Marco tugged a lock of his hair in frustration. It was enough to make Dylan's break out of his musings completely with a loud curse and a childish pout.

"Dylan...why are we here?" Marco demanding once again, looking far from amused, his face quickly darkening in agitation. Mood swings, Dylan's mind threw out randomly amid his dazed shock. The realization apparently was enough to seal the deal because he felt his resolve crumble immediately.

"We're here because the doctor's found something special about you when you were in the hospital for your arm. There's a special hospital here, which we're in right now, because they're going to want to talk to you...want to work with you...to...to make sure the special thing doesn't go awry."

The words sounded strange even in Dylan's head. Out loud they sounded nothing short of ridiculous.

Marco however seemed to be taking this all in without a problem. From his winces earlier it was obvious his dosage of painkillers had worn off and so it was not possible he was doped down by drugs. And out of all the reactions he was waiting for Marco lifting his hand to run down the side of Dylan's face, giving him comfort instead of the other way around, was definitely the last.

"I knew there was something happening to me," Marco whispered, looking far off and Dylan fancied almost glowing as pregnant women were often described as.

He felt his worry melt into something closer to giddiness in the face of Marco's lack of anger, something completely alien after the trials of the night before. Before he could even stop himself the words slipped right out of his mouth in a chaotic little breath of calm euphoria.

"We can have a child, Marco."

Across from him Marco was smiling tiredly, affection clear in the lines of his face. "If we ever decide to quit procrastinating and visit a foster home, of course we could. After this mishap is cleared up at least. Are you saying you're finally ready?"

Dylan's face fell into a frown instantaneously. Shit. Floundering momentarily, Dylan scooted over that bit more, his nose overlapping with the Italian man's. Breaths mingled and the blond man deliberated.

"No...Mar--..._you_ can have a child. You _have_ a child."

His voice was very obviously thin, practically pleading by tone alone for Marco not to become angry with him, to become upset at all. That was the last thing he wanted but he had no idea how to make this seem more real to the younger man. As the man's face darkened below him he knew he had failed.

"Dylan...now is not the time for jokes," Marco whispered urgently, eyes blazing with something close to sad reproach. "Seriously, what's the reason I'm here?"

Feeling ridiculously close to tears Dylan swallowed around the lump in his throat. Grasping at straws, Dylan dropped a hand down to cover Marco's stomach as he had done the entire night in his sleep, as if waiting for a sign...a movement, a sudden warmth, or a sound to suggest that there was a miracle growing there.

None had been forthcoming. He only had faith.

"Think back to the past couple of months...think about the mornings and the weight and the way you always felt so upset with the world for no reason. Please Marco..."

"Dylan stop!"

"No," the blond man whispered, cupping his husband's face with his free hand. "You feel it don't you? You've felt it for a while now...that's why you never said anything. It didn't make sense. If you said it out loud it would hurt worse when you were wrong..."

"Don't say these things..."

"You thought maybe you were going crazy didn't you? Thought your mind was playing tricks with you because you wanted this so badly...to have this...you love the kids at work so much...it's all you ever wanted and y--"

"I _can't_ have children, Dylan!"

Marco's voice was loud as he practically screamed his words in the silence and the stunned quiet that followed was practically buzzing with tension as furious brown eyes remained locked with pleading blue. Minutes ticked by as a mental conversation waged violently between their gazes, pushing, pulling, dragging, and shoving, one trying to hold, while the other tried to run.

After what felt like years of charged silence later, Dylan broke the battle with a tiny, intense voice, so unlike his demeanor that it made Marco listen as if he had no choice.

"But what if you _could_?"

Just like that it was as if the barriers received a crack in their armor and Marco felt his face crumple. He hid his face before any tears fell, burying it within the pillow and focusing on breathing without looking at Dylan. The man however afforded him no peace, instead leaning close and whispering comforting words into his ear.

"The people here...they say...Marco they say there are special cases. That you're one of them. I didn't want to believe them either...I still have trouble. But Marco...what if they're right? There is something going on with you...and you and I both know it's not stress...what if it's something so much bigger than both of us?"

Marco looked up, face tear-stained and lined with fatigue. It took all Dylan had within him not to reach up and brush the tears away, but he felt that one touch may break him.

"But...but what if it isn't, Dylan?" he whispered, sounding as if the very prospect may kill him. "I can hope for something only so long...if I let myself believe in it...if it doesn't come true...Dylan I'd die."

"It's not a prank, Marco," the blond insisted, moving to hold his husband's face in both hands as if to anchor him to reality, to make him listen to his words and watch them fall from his mouth. "This is all too elaborate...the signs are all too convincing...n-no one drags two people across the world for a laugh, baby. We-- we're left little choice in what to believe. Have faith."

Marco opened his mouth to respond, eyes suddenly much warmer than they had been throughout the entire argument and Dylan knew without his words that Marco had agreed to trust him. But just before sound could escape the Italian there was a knock at the door and both men jumped, breaking gazes to look in that direction.

Neither moved for so long that the person knocked again, startling them for a second time. Dylan frowned and leaned forward, kissing Marco on the forehead before disentangling himself from their embrace and stumbling over to the door, not even realizing until he was swinging it open that he was only clad in his boxers from the night before.

Behind the door stood a sweet looking blonde woman whom immediately blushed crimson at his state of undress. She was, like Joel and the doctor from the previous evening, wearing a white smock over normal everyday clothes of jeans and a sweater, her hair drawn back with a pencil stuck haphazardly behind her head.

"I um-...good morning, Mr. Michalchuk," the woman said, voice high pitched in embarrassment. Her accent was a sweet British lilt, hinting towards a more northern drawl and Dylan found it quite endearing. My name is Linda. I was told to wake you and your husband and invite you both down for breakfast before the day's activities begin if you're both agreeable."

Smiling brightly he nodded, feeling his hair bounce against his neck. "That'd be great. I'm absolutely starving. Would you mind overly if we got a shower and dressed first? I'm afraid we've been awake...discussing things...instead of getting ready. Would thirty minutes be alright?"

The woman only looked relieved and nodded, her eyes painstakingly staying locked on his face, the blush still lightly staining her cheeks. "No that'd be fine. While you're getting ready I will go speak to someone about obtaining you two some clothes for the next week and getting you a map of the facility. You'll no doubt need both before the day is out."

With that Linda disappeared down the hallway, humorous pencil bobbing with her every step. Dylan stared after her for a moment in amusement before letting himself back into the room and closing the door. Marco was still lying in the bed, propped up on his good arm with a curious expression. Dylan only shrugged and gave him a ridiculous smile.

"The people here are quite strange," he offered, walking over to the Italian man and helping him sit up. "Well, let's get you showered first...you'll take longer."

Dylan trailed off, looking around the room and Marco was about to ask him what was wrong before the man jumped up and stumbled over to the empty trash can in the corner, pulling out the plastic bag before walking back over.

"We've got to keep your cast dry," he explained in distraction, eyes and hands already focusing on the task of getting his husband out of the white polo he was wearing. Marco allowed the treatment for a few minutes after a rather annoyed sigh. Once his shirt was off, both of them mindful to keep from jostling his hurt arm, Marco batted away his husband's hands.

"I can bathe myself," Marco pointed out, leaning up to kiss Dylan's cheek before walking around him and disappearing into the bathroom looking lost in thought, leaving Dylan by himself and rather at a loss.

Once he heard running water, the blond felt his fingers begin to tap at his leg and he absentmindedly hoped Marco had covered his cast. The man had never had one before so he would no doubt not know any better. It was better thinking about the trivial things in comparison to what his brain was beating him with want to think about instead.

The silence was getting on his nerves and Dylan nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the first few tinny chords of a Snow Patrol song wafting up from the pile of clothes on the floor. Looking at both doors of the room as if waiting for someone to come out, Dylan jumped up and dug about, finally locating Marco's cell phone with his friend's name lighting the screen. He sighed, deciding he should have saw this coming.

He hit the speak button and sighed into the receiver. "Hello, Ellie."

"Dylan," the woman's voice replied, sounding worried and rather tired, but thankful. "I went to visit Marco at the school today because we always have lunch together and I was told that his doctor had called him in sick indefinitely. What's going on? Is he okay?"

Well...fuck. Dylan rubbed at his eyes, suddenly feeling too tired where he had been bounding with energy only moments before. "Marco's fine, Ellie. In fact, he's doing great. He does have a broken arm though. I'm assuming they told you about his fall?"

"Yes of course. Do you know how long he'll be in that?"

"No...probably a few weeks," Dylan replied, making a very clear 'wtf' face into the air at the completely random question.

"Okay, but what's wrong with him? Is it serious? When can I visit him?"

"Ellie," Dylan grumbled, hearing the water shut off in the bathroom. "To tell you the truth, this is something Marco needs to tell you so I will let him call you later tonight alright? For now just rest assured he's fine and you can see each other when you can. Right now we've got a meeting with a doctor so I'm going to have to let you go."

Marco stumbled into the room looking light years better than he had earlier, refreshed and once again holding that near glowing quality Dylan had seen earlier. He had wrapped himself in two towels, a random habit he'd always had, one wrapped around his waist and another draped across his shoulders, hiding almost all of his skin from sight. But he was smiling and that was something.

Ellie's tinny voice broke his thoughts. "You don't have to be an ass, Dylan," the red head accused, but not without the sarcastic deadpan you could often hear in her jokes. "I'll call back around eight, here's hoping Marco answers instead. Take care of him."

The small click signaled her cutting the line and Dylan congratulated himself on a job well done, snapping the phone shut and dropping it on the bedspread. Seeing his husband shivering a bit and occasionally wincing, Dylan stooped down and collected the man's black pants and his shirt from the previous day.

He stood and walked over after placing the two items on the bed and wrapped long arms around Marco's toweled frame. The Italian smelled clean and rather sterile, his lack of typical shampoo and soaps creating a very noticeable difference. But Dylan did not care overly, only watched as Marco smiled through a small wince.

"We'll try to get you some pain medication during breakfast," Dylan reassured him, pushing back the dark hair from his face before stepping out of the way, going to take his own shower and allow Marco to dress without his wandering eyes. He tried to hurry, simply going through the motions of washing his hair and body as he stared blandly at the white tiles of the shower, ears straining to catch any signs from the other room that Marco may need him.

His shower ended without mishap and he toweled off in equal silence before walking back into the bedroom, enjoying the rush of cold that came with moving from the muggy bathroom. Marco sat at the foot of the bed, fully dressed and his hair now looking more orderly and pulled back in a ponytail away from his face due to its wet state. His casted arm looked heavy but dry in his lap and overall he looked lost in thought.

Dylan only smiled awkwardly, hopping into his own pants and trying to locate the pale blue button down he'd arrived in, slipping it on at last. Just as he was buttoning the final button the knock from before sounded. He moved to answer it but Marco beat him to it, apparently reaching a point of curiosity that made him go out of his way to figure out what was going on.

Beyond the door, Dylan could see the same sweet woman from earlier and her smile was quite wide indeed as she regarded Marco. Slipping into his shoes, Dylan came up behind Marco and smiled at her. She looked relieved he was now dressed.

"Breakfast is waiting downstairs gentleman," Linda said, offering Marco a small plastic cup with what looked like powerful pain killers resting at the bottom and himself a sheet of paper with the schematics of a rather complicated building that he could only guess was a map of the facility. With a smile, she began walking and the men followed silently, looking both ways at all of the doors and the few people they passed.

On the bottom floor was a drab cafeteria and Linda directed them towards to a small buffet of sorts before she disappeared back in the direction of the elevators, leaving Marco and Dylan standing in the middle of the room rather dumbly.

After several minutes Dylan only shrugged, playfully cuffing the back of the Italian's neck before going off towards the food, his stomach taking over where his mind and emotions had failed. When he turned around, his plate literally heaped with food he saw Marco sitting at a table by himself looking wan and tired, his brown eyes fixated on the tabletop intently.

"You should eat something, Marco," he murmured as he sat down across from him. His husband however only rolled his eyes before allowing his gaze to snap right back to the table. Dylan could see the cogs working in his head as if he were transparent. Marco was thinking about the conversation earlier...thinking about the baby that may or may not exist. He was thinking of all the damn possibilities that Dylan himself was resolutely ignoring.

"Come on, just try a glass of milk please? Some toast. Anything."

He didn't even wait for Marco's response, already striding across the room and returning with both, setting them in front of the rather irritated looking man.

"Dylan, I don't exactly enjoy seeing my food twice," he snapped irritably, resting his cheek in his hand morosely. After several moments of silence in which Dylan stared him down, not touching his own food as if daring Marco to eat his own, the man finally moved to finger at his glass of milk in thought.

For the first time since their conversation, brown eyes lifted to look at Dylan a bit shamefully. "I've not been eating a lot lately," Marco admitted, biting his lower lip sheepishly. "What with the weight gain and the vomiting and...if all of this is true...what if I---"

This acceptance, this sign of Marco admitting that this entire scenario may be true, albeit stressed, was what the blond man had been waiting for and it calmed his own worry.

"No ifs," Dylan said, voice sounding strong and effectively ending Marco's morbid musings as he lifted one of his larger hands onto the table and covered one of the darker man's hands, squeezing gently. "We'll get all of this shit cleared up today. We'll end up picking out nursery colors or flying home. Either way...we'll get through this. No ifs."

Marco only nodded, swallowing thickly and returning his eyes to the milk before him. After a moment of mental deliberation he lifted the glass and took a careful sip. Across from him Dylan nodded in appreciation, tucking into his own breakfast.

-------------------------

"Ah, my dear boys!"

Marco and Dylan whom had been eating in relative silence for the last ten minutes snapped to attention, looking across the cafeteria to see Dr. Mikhailov walking over. Dylan gave a small smile in greeting and Marco only looked on in confusion, having been asleep through his entire introduction.

When the aging man drew up a chair to sit with them at the table he flashed his eyes questioningly at Dylan almost willing his husband able to communicate with him telepathically.

"Hello, Marco I don't believe we've met. I'm Dr. Bernard Mikhailov and I'll be your head doctor for the next few months," the man greeted, lifting a frail looking hand to shake Marco's. The Italian looked hesitant but did indeed shake the man's hand, casting frantic glances to Dylan every few seconds.

"I um, it's nice to meet you," he replied, pausing and biting his lower lip unsurely. "Wh-when can I go home if you don't mind me asking. I don't know how much of this story I'm willing to believe and go along with while my students are without me. I need to go back to work."

It was hardly the nicest of things to say, Marco realized. His words had been downright rude compared to his usual amount of tact but he was tired and still a bit in pain, as well as sick and not a little bit cranky. And the chance that he was being lied to was high. Surely he would be allowed this small moment where normal human decorum failed him.

However, despite all of the horrified or outraged expressions he had expected to cross the doctor's face in reaction, none were forthcoming. Instead a twinkle seemed to burst into life within the man's grey eyes, and he smiled his gentle, cigarette stained smile.

"Did you sleep well last night? Did you eat this morning?" the man asked, looking uncannily in control of the situation despite the utterly inane question he'd just posed.

It took great will power for Marco not to make a face at Mikhailov. Instead he turned a confused glare on Dylan whom only shrugged as if to tell him to answer the question. Marco turned back to the man with a small glower.

"I slept fine. And I ate as much as I could this morning considering the weird sickness I've had the past month or so. Is there a reason you're asking me such strange questions?"

"Why of course," he replied, looking ridiculously proud of himself as he moved to stand. "Knowing you are in relatively fit condition I think it's now time that I show you and your husband what I've dragged you here for. Come along gentlemen."

Dr. Mikhailov did not even wait for them both to answer or object as he pushed in his chair and already began walking towards the doors. Marco and Dylan looked at each other in bewilderment for a split second before noisily jumping out of their chairs in a flurry of loud scrapes and clattering silverware to follow the man.

The corridors looked just as white and boring as they had the night before and Dylan felt utterly uninterested in them, leaning over to slide an arm around Marco's frail shoulders as they speedily walked behind the doctor whom moved with quite a bit more energy than Dylan would have given him credit.

At the end of the hallway they were ushered into a room where a small inclined bed sat with two chairs and several large pieces of equipment scattered about. Dylan was instantly nervous for no reason and squeezed Marco closer.

The elder man was blind to the movement and had turned to them both, clapping his hands together and smiling warmly. "Marco if you'd just lie down here and Dylan if you'd take a seat over there I'll give you the proof you've been waiting for."

Too nervous to even look at one another both men did not need to be told twice, haltingly taking the places they been directed towards. Lying on the scratchy, overly clean linens of the bed Marco swallowed anxiously. Dylan was seated in the chair to his right and Dr. Mikhailov took the seat on the left, beginning to fiddle with the equipment.

Amid his rather frantic musings Marco felt Dylan take his hand and he squeezed the offered comfort, eyes fixated on the machines all around, irrationally afraid the doctor was going to slice him open at any moment.

The moment never came. Instead Mikhailov smiled at him reassuringly before reaching over and lifted his shirt off of his stomach, letting it bunch around his chest beneath his arms. Marco gasped and stuttered a reprimand, moving to push it back down before, strangely enough, Dylan reached over and pushed his hand back down.

Looking over angrily he was faced with Dylan's carefully blank eyes, obviously asking him to just go along with this and promising he'd take over if anything bad happened. It calmed Marco instantly and so he relaxed somewhat into the bed.

With the go ahead now, Mikhailov reached over a smoothed a strange gel substance over his now exposed stomach and Marco sucked in a breath beneath the fingers, startled. The gel was cold and he felt terribly uncomfortable being touched like this, but the doctor apparently understood that and finished quickly, returning a moment later with a handheld part of one of the machines.

For all of a moment Marco thought the instrument was a taser and he could hear and feel his breathing speed up comically before the doctor rolled the wand across his stomach. Marco watched the movement with increasing confusion, wondering what in the hell was happening until he heard a startled gasp from Dylan beside him.

Marco looked over at the blond man, wondering what was wrong when he caught the man's expression. Blue eyes were trained away from him, wide with something akin to astonishment, mouth hanging open in surprise. The look alone caused Marco's heart to leap and he jerked his own gaze in the same direction, feeling his mouth fall open in a similar fashion.

A few feet away stood what appeared to be a television screen and on it was a fuzzy image that looked like nothing beyond a moving swarm of black and white swirls. But both men had seen such things in movies and the like and knew instantly what the vague outlines were.

"Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to your new son or daughter," Dr. Mikhailov whispered gleefully, still intent upon keeping the movements of the wand steady despite watching the men's reactions.

Dylan felt ridiculously choked up as he stared at the strange splotch of color that was supposedly his child, right there inside of Marco, separated from his hands by meer flesh and growing. Tiny little fingers and toes and large eyes simply forming and waiting. The screen was moving proof of what he'd been hoping was true, the hope not tangible but the warmth that spread through him was palpable.

"It's beautiful," the blond whispered after a long silence, seemingly unable to look away.

Marco however was staring at the screen in increasing awed worry. They hadn't lied after all. His outlandish feelings of having someone else with him all of the time was true. The sickness, the weight, the pain all had a cause. A tiny cause with an equally tiny heartbeat living right there inside of him.

With one last hopelessly shocked look towards the screen Marco turned to the doctor with large eyes, clinging to Dylan's hand, helpless to do much else. "Y- it's true," he breathed, frighteningly close to tears. "I've been...I've been not eating and falling off of stages and...and everything else when there was a..."

"Now don't fret so soon, Marco," the doctor murmured, returning the wand to it's holder on the machine, grey eyes warm and reassuring as possible. "I was worried as well but your body has proved to be resilient beyond all of our expectations. He or she seems to be perfectly fine. It has a regular heartbeat and is in top form."

Dylan looked ready to fall over or pass out beside the other two men, having moved to cradle his forehead in a hand. "Holy shit," he muttered to himself, the impact of it all finally hitting him now that he didn't have Marco to worry about.

Dr. Mikhailov laughed very quietly, reaching over to clap a hand on Dylan's shoulder. "That's the spirit. Now...I have hopefully gotten both of your attention I assume. Do you have questions for me?"

Instantly a million and one flooded both of their brains. Marco spoke first. "H-how did this happen? I mean...how is it even possible?"

"That is easy my boy," the elderly man said, mannerisms taking on a dreamy quality. "Love...love is how this was possible. For years upon years scientists have studied the human body to figure out what exactly love is, how it works, how it effects the mind, whether it is a real, tangible thing. And thus far, as most people know, there has been little to no headway made.

'But on that note there have been several indicators found that show love is something that does impact a person's mind and body from a quickened heartbeat to a contraction of the stomach. Endorphins are released. It's been proved with MRI scans that the most active parts of the brain are concerned with pleasure and arousal usually caused by those affected by 'love.' Even a blush is simply an increased flow of blood. But all of this...it begins somewhere, and that is where all of the theories come in because there science fails."

The doctor paused, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful expression as he regarded them both. There was a strange sort of wonder in his eyes as he looked upon their faces, like he saw something there that they were blind to.

"Male pregnancy, as Dylan has already found out last night, is extremely rare. The amount of research we can do is small because of our time frames. We're lucky to get a case every decade. But the one thing that has held true throughout our studies is love.

'When in love, certain chemicals in the brain shift. When the love is spectacularly strong, such as yours, this shift carries far more impact. It in fact, in a sense, tricks the body into believing this phenomenon is possible and allows for DNA to mix. No scientist has yet discovered how the egg is formed, so one can only speculate. It is simply looked at as a freak accident. The problem is of course that a male's body has trouble coping with such a development. If the love is not strong enough, the man's body will fail through the shift due to faltering chemical imbalances. There have been two such cases where a man has died in the process, usually thanks to disloyalty or anger at the crucial moment of shifting. There have no doubt been many others but it is harder to keep track of the deaths."

Dylan's grip on Marco's hand increased, nearly crushing the Italian's fingers. "Dylan...you're hurting me," he squeaked, jerking Dylan's attention away from his sudden panic to his husband. He loosened his grip, turning back to Dr. Mikhailov with pleading eyes, needing to hear more.

"As I was saying, a man's body is not made for pregnancy. There is no true free space for the free floating sack that is now within you. Your body is literally straining itself to the breaking point to keep the space open for the developing fetus. And there is a reason no male pregnancy has been recorded before the twentieth century...because men do not have the uterus that women do.

'The child has no means of leaving the man's body. Modern science has of course moved forward to the point Cesareans are normal and only now are we able to remove the baby from the man's body. Before they were developed men simply died once the strain became too much. Now such fatalities are almost myth."

'This is why these occurrences are monitored so heavily, to make sure the pregnant man is never stressed. To be stressed could disturb the already fragile hold the body has over keeping the free floating area intact. When I first heard of your fall and broken arm I thought for sure your body would have collapsed before you arrived. You...Marco you're a miracle beyond anything our scientists have seen for that reason. For your body to hold up after that shock...we could only draw two hypotheses...either you are somehow tougher than the other recorded men...or the love that you two share is something beyond the others and I personally believe the latter."

Both men finally looked to one another at this particular piece of information, what they saw in each other somehow altered by these words. They had always known after meeting in high school that the dynamic between them was stranger than most. When Dylan was ever away Marco always felt as if he was missing a limb. His friends called him clingy, told him he'd have to learn to stand alone at some point...but it had never changed. When Dylan was gone for more than twelve hours Marco would become so agitated he'd do rash things he'd regret later, almost ceasing to function completely until Dylan was back.

The same could be said for Dylan. While he was able to function without Marco bodily near him if he ever thought Marco was angry at him he'd be reduced close to tears. Not surprising for some but Dylan was forever known by the tight hold he had on his emotions. He'd never cried through death, parental arguments, or personal let downs. But one upset look from Marco and every single one of his emotional walls crumbled, leaving him glassy-eyed and shaking like he'd had his heart ripped out.

It was always strange to realize even the smallest of things meant something so much more when added up, just like Marco's morning sickness which now stood for the biggest thing in their life so far.

"I think that perhaps I will let you both return to your rooms now my boys. This has been a lot dropped on you for one day and I understand how imperative talking is at this juncture. Consider yourselves free for the day. Meals will continue to be available in the cafeteria and if you need any assistance whatsoever simply dial nine on the phone in your rooms and we'll send someone over."

Both men swallowed painfully and nodded, unable to look away from each other despite the doctor speaking to them. Mikhailov however, hardly looked upset at the lack of attention and only moved to wipe the gel substance off of Marco's stomach with a wet cloth and lowered his shirt.

"Tomorrow, however, the talking gives way to action gentlemen. Go rest."

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And so now hopefully some of this has been explained and Marco is no longer in the dark. Do please share your reactions! I love reviews something awful and very much appreciate your thoughts.

The chapters will slow down now that I've given what I had completed. Just in warning.


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